After Her
by elisedaae
Summary: Christine is gone, but there is an after. Nadir returns to the opera house months after the fateful disaster and discovers a broken Erik still living, but his time is short. He contemplates Erik's complexity and finally understands his love for Christine. Short Story/One shot. Mostly Kay/ALW based. Disclaimer: Characters belong to Leroux, Kay, ALW, what have you.


She is gone.

The reality is excruciating each time I wake.

Before her, I rarely slept. I was absorbed, focusing on my obsessions. Music. Always music, night and day, as long as I can remember. Melodies, childish pursuits, a voice to the madness, a distraction, a need, compositions, and then an angel. That was all there was, all there ever need be. Now she exists only in my memory, and maddened though my mind is, I am grateful for recollection alone.

In dreams she has not left. She stands right before me. I could hear the pure gracefulness of her voice when she spoke —oh, even her ramblings and the tritest things one could say sounded like a melody when she said them! I could see the glittering promise contained within her dark eyes, the way they sparkled, just like they had been in life. Her smile was resplendent. Her laugh was a symphony of ecstatic pleasure to hear, despite unreal. There was true comfort in closing my eyes to be with her, although even within the dream I knew it was a beautiful lie.

She _was_ there —so real sometimes, so alive, and yet it was not enough. I drift in and out of sleep, then awake to nothingness. She was not there.

I had been so blind. Before her, I was caught up in my hatred for the world and everyone in it. I hid myself and lived with my music and solitude. I had convinced myself to never expect anything more. There never need be another for Erik, for Erik would not have them. People were all the same. They were ugly, warped faces that jeered and laughed and mocked and scorned and condemned and killed. It mattered not if I repaid the favor.

And that I did. My hands brought death as they brought notes of song, killed as they composed, were stained with blood as they graced the keys of the piano, struck merciless blows as they held a violin's bow.

My life was one hideous void of worthlessness. Crushed ambition, hope seemingly destroyed, dreams shattered, beauty dead. And then there was her, and I finally saw the light.

I was hideous. Before her, I had dared to dream so long ago that my own mother could somehow love me. A cruel slap to the face had taught me a lesson that would dictate the course of my life. The denial of a kiss had shown me what a monster I was. So I became one. And a grotesque one I made. My soul was as my face, and my face left nothing wanting in ugliness. I was completely distorted, inside and out. As dreams died and hope ended, pain and loss taught me time and time again to stop chasing the promise of anything more.

 _Christine_ showed me otherwise. She kissed me, and she did not die. She opened my eyes with her selfless compassion. She is more beautiful than the wretched thing that I am is ugly.

I was in pain. It was bitter and profound. The hurt repeated itself endlessly, and so needlessly, before her. If I had just entirely abandoned hope after my mother denied me, perhaps I would have been so damnably evil that my conscience wouldn't have lead me to further suffering.

Perhaps I would have never been a display to gawk at in horror. I wouldn't have been lead away to Persia to create beauty, for I would be too far gone from the rest of creation. I would never have felt each agonizing blow to my soul—heartbreak more painful than any wound or scar I have ever carried, or any life I have ever taken.

I wouldn't have music, I would never have corrupted her...she would be happy, with the boy, never to know a wretched thing like Erik.

Never to save him by humoring his desperation. Never to place her lips upon a corpse. Free to live, for Erik would be wholly dead. And Christine would never have been so beautiful as she had been when she saved him.

I was alive. Before her, I had been death, inside and out. My face was eternally a curse; a mask, the only way to hide it. To delay the pain, to cause it to lessen just if ever so slightly. I was always different, but the ignorance instilled within the onlooker, the strange looks, the mocking, the whispers of such an oddity— it could never be as cruel as the disgust. I could not live with the fear behind the eyes of those who were so unfortunate to see behind it. They were sickened, revolted, after having looked rotting flesh in the eye.

Naturally, they never stopped to see the pain which glistened behind it. No one had, until her.

I hated myself, I decided I was only worthy to be dead, lived quite literally awaiting the metaphorical cold hands of death...and then she appeared, and there was purpose. At long last, hope. Her voice found me, I took it for myself. Fate is cruel, for I never could have known that desiring an instrument selfishly for my own music would bring me to the one person...the _only_ person that would ever overlook my ugliness, would see the man that lie deep within the prison of his disfigurement.

I had not breathed until I heard her sing. I had no pulse until she showed me the truth I had denied for years, I had no perception until she condemned my wickedness. I hadn't a soul until she dragged it from the depths with her embrace. Because of her, I was redeemed.

I, that hurt her, used her, deceived her, crushed her dreams and desires unfeelingly within my twisted hands, tainted her by the poison of my mind, crushed her innocence with my darkness—It was _me, me_ that the angel cried for. I knew I had a heart at that moment, begging for release with each one of her tears, tears that fell from her tormented eyes as they dripped upon my skin and promised something else. I was as cold as death, but those tears had given warmth. She showed me compassion when the world never could. She was the only one. She was everything.

After her, I was broken.

The days following after she left with the boy drew on, marred by pain so deep that words and thoughts cease to exist. There is only one resounding factor to utter destruction of the heart; I discovered it instantly. A dull ache in the pit of my stomach lodged itself within, churning and pleading for help, yet knowing it to be futile. Had I no knowledge of anatomy, I would assume my heart had sunk from its place, falling ever lower. It was not heartache, it ached to the core. It was so inward that it was not a part of my body; it was my soul, the innermost reaches, which screamed in torment. A constant reminder each and every day of a single moment. It never left.

I remembered the sorrow on her features well, for it was the last thing I saw before blackness overcame me. Nothing mattered when she was gone. She would never return. This was it.

I had loved, I had lived, and I had lost. And I continue to love her as the days turn into weeks. Music had abruptly ended from the second of her departure. Without Christine, there was no music.

The melodies no longer played in my mind, song never again echoed from my bloated, misshapen lips. The skeletal and pallid hands I possessed never would again create a single note. It had all been one final, resonant crescendo as that night had ended. Don Juan had been the last time, and truly a triumphant end to Erik. He would only sing her name, one last time, before the music died. But she had not taken it away, how could she? It was simply impossible without her. She was music itself.

 _I let her go._ The truth haunted me every time I arose from the comforting emptiness of the dark which I often succumbed to. I had freed her to be with the boy. Her sorrow had compelled me to do the unthinkable. Somehow, pitiful creature though I am, I was able to show one ounce of strength in my entire life. I showed her mercy. There had been no other option when she kissed me. Love must have caused me to do what Erik was never capable. And the truth, that she was forever gone due to my own volition, ended me.

I tried drinking to get rid of the pain, to haze it over even slightly, but it was as useless as trying to forget her. The pain was unequaled, and yet I knew I never wanted to stop living within my memories of Christine Daae. She and I _had_ been together. We had lived in the same world, breathed the same air, we had spoken to each other. We had combined our voices and spirits into one. Destiny intertwined my soul to hers forever with the pain, and I would never want it any other way. I loved her, eternally and ardently. She was still gone.

The days went on endlessly. She wouldn't come back. I couldn't blame her. She was happy with him, she must be. He was the one she loved. I had seen the look in her eyes. I too knew the same glint which signaled complete despair; I knew what it was like to lose the one you loved. She had possessed it when I almost killed him, and I did now each time I dared to look within a mirror. She had never made that look for me.

Not even when she returned and said her unspoken goodbye. Memories were a haze now; I did not know for certain what was real. Yet a strange moment of sanity was undeniable proof that she had come back. She had given me the ring, her ring, the one I had taken from her. She had cried for me. The tears had fallen down her cheeks and her face had looked as broken as I had ever seen another person. _He_ was not there, it was just us. One last time. She had let me touch her, let Erik kiss her. And all was over.

I often found myself wandering about without purpose. I was restless and refused to die, yet I knew that my mind obeyed my body and resigned itself to fate. Oblivion which was long sought, that silent refuge would soon be mine...and yet somehow the heart still willed me to keep living.

It was an endless battle with no victor, and I was in the middle of it, waiting for release and closure. How many times had I begged to be taken from this miserable world, and God never granting me that one mercy, only to freely give it now when my mind beat against it?

I found the piano one day, and looked upon its broken seat. She had sat there in days gone by. I had, too. She was next to me. At first she would stand aloft while I played, but soon she had warmed up to the idea of being nearer. I never understood it. A question lingered in my mind, and yet I found that it was fine unanswered. How I longed for it to surprise me once more. There would be no more ifs, that point was passed the moment she had faded from my sight.

It was now battered and beaten, pushed aside by those that had found me after she was gone. Still, the instrument might play. I had dared to press a single ivory key, and the tone echoed in mournful splendor and resounded throughout the silence. I did not press it again.

Not every mirror had been smashed. Many pieces lay shattered on the floor and crunched beneath my feet, disrupting the silence which existed ever since the throngs of angry men had left. One looking glass still remained in its place. Beside the dresser and behind a giant chest, it hung, covered by a tattered drapery covered in dust and ruin.

My hand found itself pulling it back one day. No wish accompanied the moment as it had done before. Somehow, I smiled wistfully in recollection, I had formerly hoped that I would remove the covering and a different face would look back at me. Such a notion had been one of those repetitive habits of the mind which never ceased to occur, formed by a hopeful child in a lonely boarded room, so far away. It was in the past. I did not expect it; it had escaped my thoughts entirely. I looked at the creature I now was. A post mortem of ironic existence.

The same distortion was still there. I had not bothered with the mask, after her. She destroyed its fabricated reality when she ripped it off in a final act of bravery. I traced the jagged, mottled veins and protrusions with a quiet sort of peace. I realized calmly that the other side of my face was no longer a reflection of the man I could have been.

The weariness of time had caused the skin to sink into the bones. They were constructed of normalcy, and still I appeared more deathly than ever before. My eye had sunk into the skull; dark shadows lined both orbs which lost the former glow. It was a cruel twist of fate, but I was unaffected. Maybe the tears which had fallen from her reverent eyes had cleaned my heart of any hatred for my infection. Or perhaps the final and complete destruction of hope had resigned myself to what I was.

I am Erik. The Phantom was at last dead. The other titles and lives of the past have been left behind and shrouded in the dust of decaying former life. It entered my thoughts in a rare and sane moment that I always had been Erik. Every name I'd lived with, persona and false face I'd worn had been a delusion which I crafted in purpose of the endless paradox, searching for self-discovery.

It took an extraordinary person such as Christine to finally enact the truth into undeniable and tangible reality. It took love to associate myself with a living person. And she had selflessly given it.

I was inhibited forevermore as the weeks went on. The pain never stopped, only distracted me in other ways. I was no longer apt and quick; no agility seemed to even permeate within my form. My bones ached. I often would collapse, and could barely stand at times. I was finally withering. A life of hardship surged through me and the condition which had long resided within was now a constant reminder of the dwindling time left. I often found I could not breathe. It was not the dust of neglect throughout my ruined home, nor a passing disease or even a sorrow so great as I felt which left me without air. It was a fate long put off in search of the only happiness the world had to offer me.

I had lived. For just a few resplendent moments, my life had begun and ended in such an incredible way that I was able to make peace with my decline. When I lied upon the ground or managed to make it to the divan, when the pain in my chest was so great I felt the end had come, I would see her face and death decided not to take me. _She was always my redemption._ Wraith of death which I had always been destined to be now showed mercy for her alone. Silent tears would fall when the attack would cease, and I knew I had been meant to exist solely because of her. To love her. And I would do so until the final stinging breath left my lungs.

I was alone. The opera had been closed at the end of Don Juan. The fires had ravaged the glorious halls into uninhabitable terrain. Perhaps it would open its doors again one day. Not all had been lost. Still, not one soul was anywhere nearby. No one had searched for a body after the invasion of my labyrinth. They likely thought the vicomte and Christine were dead. Maybe it was necessary so they could live. I wished it, for her.

I had long been thought a thing of death. The Opera Ghost was a rumor, a legend, and a tragic figure in the end. They never understood him. When it was revealed he was flesh and bone, they decided to execute him. The mobs had come almost as soon as she had gone. She couldn't have looked back, perhaps an insane figment of my mind perpetuates the moment out of hopeful thinking.

I did not try and prevent any of the rage they enacted, yet my heart mourned in indifferent silence when they had gone. Everything was destroyed; anger had filled the veins of those which searched to kill the phantom. They did not know that _she_ already had.

So much they had hated him that they took it all out on the tangible evidence they could find that he had lived.

I wandered the scene in the aftermath, realizing that not a single instrument was unaffected. The violin—it had belonged to Christine's father, a gift...it was cracked in half, the splinters of the wood shattered into ugly breakage. The organ lay in pieces. The pipes had crashed and made vicious sounds in my ears when they were destroyed. Books had been burned, treasures looted or left in pieces on the damp floor. The lake was filled with stray items and remainders of broken possessions. All that was was no more. All my creation gone. Even the score of Don Juan itself was likely burnt along with the ash and shattered chandelier that comprised the haunted stage above. My music, my legacy...irrevocably gone. It did not matter, after her.

I walked by her room one day. The door opened with a loud creak, echoing into the silence eerily. I looked into the darkness. My sight was not as good as it had been formerly in the dark. I managed to find a candle upon the dresser which stood behind the door. I lit it, and the room came alive. The tears came as I'd known they would. It was destroyed.

They had dared to ruin what I'd created for _her_. I was overcome by rage. I would have thrashed around and destroyed everything, had it not already been… and to what purpose would it accomplish? Instead, I cried aloud, seeing all the gowns, ones she had worn ripped to shreds. Trinkets and jewelry looted or broken, beads scattering the floor. Mirror cracked, walls damaged. A fire must have started in the corner, for a black spot had burnt the ornate wallpaper and a candle lay shattered on the floor. Every trinket placed for her amusement was either broken or gone. Anger turned to sorrow, as I was too soft to feel anything otherwise. I screamed into the silence, surely echoing my wailing throughout every passage of the massive dungeons. Then the coughing came.

I could not breathe. I could not...the light flashed in my eyes with searing pain, and I was blind. I fell to the floor, coughing for breath. My chest was wracked with each harsh intake of air, only to be sputtered out with blood. My chest ached like a blade wound, deep inside. I managed to crawl from the room somehow despite my lack of vision, and then only darkness.

When I awoke, I was lifeless and limp on the ground. I had always been thin, but now I was wasted away. With whatever bit of strength I could muster, I inched all the way out of the room, closing the door softly and vowing never to enter the haunted space again.

By some miracle, there came a day when I was not completely isolated. Somehow the daroga had managed to return. I was shocked. After everything that had occurred, I expected him to turn his back upon Erik. He had helped the vicomte, after all. He did not know of what I'd done, all that had happened afterwards.

When the look of stunned emotion disappeared from my wretched face, perhaps the last time I would ever smile, I greeted him. He looked as though he pitied me. We were both broken. I did not hate him, I found. I sat down with him, in the remnants of my parlor, and I told him everything.

Oh, I am sure he did not believe me. He couldn't, it was too wild and spectacular to be true. That a woman, that _she_ out of them all, had shown me love...indeed, it must be one of those memories which is doomed to die with me. Only she would ever know the truth, and I was comforted. Nevertheless, I related it all to him, holding nothing back. Curiously, I could not even find it within my heart to show him any sort of animosity.

Yes, I could see the doubt in his eyes, behind that small smile. I told him I knew he did not believe me, and I did not despair nonetheless. I may have even laughed. I cannot blame him in the end. It is simply too impossible. It was never in Erik's fate to receive a kiss.

I would die, knowing that I had cheated fate. It was a peaceful reassurance.

Nadir was very good to me, he worried for me or at least was kind enough to put on the pretense. I assured him all was as well as it could be, that I needed nothing else now. I could simply die contentedly, drifting slowly from the world and leaving my legacy behind in the memory of Christine Daae.

I was reminded of a time, one which seemed like worlds away, old enough to be a memory recorded in tales of the past. I was young, I recalled with great weariness. I remembered Nadir, he flashed before me now in the face of my visitor with the lines disappearing from his weathered features and the look of youth so similar to my own at the time. I saw his expression in a particular moment, a farewell said long ago.

He had saved my life. I found myself feeling rather distant and ambiguous, a habit I'd formed from the time since she'd left. Nadir asked me what the matter was, and I uttered something about Persia and Mazandaran, and perhaps spoke of old times with too much sentiment. There was a strange look in his eye when he beheld me. One infinitely sorrowful, tinged with pity as ever... and yet there was a keen sense of relief and even joy concealed behind it all. For once, I found I did not mind one silent, emotional moment in his presence.

It was at that point in time that I realized Nadir had always been a friend. I had called him such a title with irony, annoyance, sarcasm and even bitter spite, yet now when I called him so in jest, there was a truth to the words that made my lip tremble.

Abruptly, of course, he quickly advised me to go to rest. He said I should leave the dungeons of the opera and stay with him. He offered me the spare room in his apartments for as long as I would need it. I could tell he knew it would not be for long. The air was not good for my lungs, he said. The cold would be my end. I pushed aside his foolish worries. I thanked him. I will always be glad I've done that.

He stood to take his leave, and said he'd return soon. The Daroga still laid claim to the foolish belief that he could master me in chess. I dismissed him with a wave of my deathly hand, reminding him that not only had the luxurious set I'd owned been among that looted or lost, but that he'd never see a day when he could best me. He shook his head. _You will always be a stubborn ass, Erik_ , he had said.

The sorrowful smile on his face told me he didn't mean a word.

 _And you are as relentlessly meddlesome and obnoxious as I've always said_ , I replied with equal wit. I nodded after him. He left with what appeared to be reluctance.

He _did_ look back, to my infinite astonishment. It appeared there were unspoken words upon his lips. I wondered if he truly would return. Perhaps he might. It appeared surprises were still to be had.

By some chance, months since her and not long after the Daroga's visit, I woke from a vivid trance of insanity in the stone hall above my home. The lapses were becoming more common and taking on a life of their own. I realized I had collapsed before the two-way mirror. I opened my eyes continuously and blinked them, as if waking up from a dream. I tasted blood in my mouth and lips, and realized I must have had another attack in my chest. A dull gray light shined into the space. It offered no warmth or reconciliation, but the familiarity struck me with a profound sorrow of the heart. I was looking into the very room that had once belonged to the angel.

A curtain blocked the window but I could see the dust that floated through the air. I dared not enter. It was cold and lifeless. Everything appeared ancient, remnants of an obliterated civilization of times gone by. Ghosts seemed to penetrate this formerly glorious world, spirits of souls and occurrences permanently gone.

There was only one lost soul that mattered. I could see her before my eyes, in the room of a former time. There was warmth from the candles lit upon her boudoir. Music drifted in from down the halls. The wallpaper was not torn, I mused over the gray and wearing scraps of ash which had taken its place. The colors had been bright. Such a trivial thing, but perhaps everything had been important when she was there.

Memory is a powerful thing. It exists in the mind, distant and vague as days go by, dying, then brought to sudden surges of life that remind a deteriorating sanity it had always been true. I had known Christine Daae. I closed my eyes, feeling the moisture pool beneath my eyes and trickle down my face. When I dared to open them again, I saw something _like_ a memory.

Perhaps it was concocted out of the various experiences of endless times brought together. I spent so long watching her from here. I used to pray for her to know me, and not the angel I pretended I was. I saw her young and inexperienced, afraid and trembling before my voice the first time I had dared to speak to her. I saw her obediently shifting from relaxed curiosity to alertness at the timbre of my voice. I saw each and every meeting flicker by as her expression would change, from fear to curiosity... Everything came to a halt. Christine stood so close to me. My hand reached out toward nothing, yet I was fully under the delusion that she stood there as real as my own existence.

She was not singing. Her melodious voice, the very reason for which I had ever sought her, did not even pour from her lips. It was a rare moment when she was simply her. She stood with her back to the mirror, intently reading a book within her silken hands. Her brow would furrow as she paid intent attention to each word, and then relax as she would make a realization. The slightest of smiles graced her cheeks as she began to read out loud, the faintest voice above a whisper, yet I soaked in each and every nonsensical word she uttered. Her beautiful eyes looked upon the pages in that curious way she had. She was so real… it was undeniable.

Her dress was out of sorts, her hair a mess of curls and bits of hair, disorder and delight. She was youthful, radiant, and _beautiful_. I had seen her a thousand different times, in all different circumstances...and yet this simple and sweet unknowing beauty caused the breath to entirely halt from my chest. An ugly gasp, a tremor. I brought my hand to the mirror and collapsed upon my knees, watching the illusion; daring not to blink for fear that she would shrink away. I could not bear her to be gone, for I had been given a gift.

I saw her one last time.

Oh, my soul was broken. I would never be whole again. It simply could never be. That hope had died, but its finality was realized at last. I would never breathe or live again. I did not need music. I did not have to create it, command it, or live within it. It would never be so until I hear her sing.

Her voice was no longer in my head. A memory replaced it. A feeling of love, warmth, and utter bliss made the memory one that was enveloped within my very core. But I couldn't hear it anymore...it had faded slowly with each passing day, and I had forgotten its sound, but never her... _never her_.

 _It had never been about her voice._ It was what had called me to her, but Christine was infinitely more. She was herself, and I loved her. I loved her, I never could stop.

I wished her hand would meet mine across the glass. It would not feel my touch, but how I longed for her to look upon me. If she could not see my scars, my face, my deeds and actions, if she could just see Erik and accept him without a thought… if happiness could form across her lips for me…

I wept. The tears fell one by one and dripped upon the floor, creating a rhythm with the drops which fell from the stone ceilings above my head. I had always been meant to watch, but never to touch. An eternal end. My fate had come full circle.

I look up at her once more as my teary, blurring eyes search desperately for a view of Christine...and then she turns around. That excited brightness is in her eyes, as she had been when I called out to her so long ago. The Angel of Music. Yet she looks right at me, the most natural joy forming upon her lips.

 _Erik._

… **..**

I found myself passing along the streets of Paris upon an autumn morning, wandering in an unintended direction that I somehow knew would be the Palais Garnier. I looked up somberly at its once splendid visage, now burnt in the front and beginning to emanate the disuse which followed. It had been nearly eight months since the fire, and the fateful performance had died from infamy within the papers long ago. I noticed the passerby around me look up at the former hall of glory, and shake their head with a reluctant phrase spoken to another. "A shame, perhaps it will open once again," I heard a woman say. "There are rumors that the former gentlemen which owned it are planning a reopening."

I had my doubts.

I did not take my eyes from the rooftop, instead remarking on a particular golden statue in the center of the looming building. A figure from the past. My head was bent backwards. I only heard the remarks of random people as they come and go. They too must have been enchanted by disaster and the haunting reminder left in its wake.

My mind was on a different subject, entirely. Against my better judgement, I found myself walking along the side roads and taking one of the forbidden entrances to the cellars. I knew them well, after years of trekking down below to visit _him_.

I recalled my last visit, and felt mournful. I did not like to feel such sorrow, and a certain weakness had plagued me last time I spoke to Erik. He had been so genuine, a different person, and yet unarguably the same man I always knew existed deep within the confines of his bitterness. I had ached; I was broken that day, regardless that the details of whatever happened beneath the Paris opera were uncertain in my mind. I could not now leave him to his lonely heart.

I made my way through the dark, cold passages and knew the traps were no longer set. Erik did not care if he was found, nor if he lived or died. I felt an unrighteous amount of anger when I'd seen what they had done to his home, to everything he owned. Truly ironic it is that they could still do nothing to him. She already had. He seemed to think it inconsequential compared to her. I could not see how, how he could love her so much, after what she'd done.

She was completely within her rights. Not a part of me could blame the Daae girl for leaving.

It was simply how things were. Girls did not fall for disfigured men, murderers, outcasts...and yet a part of me that I loathe to admit wished she _could_ love him. His story seemed unlikely, and I at first thought him out of his mind as he told his tale of his final moments with her. Yet there had been no wildness in his eyes.

They were real, showing his soul in undeniable truth. I did not know what to think. Reality, logical and true, of what I'd witnessed, seemed hazy when I heard him speak. When I listened to him, his voice compelled me to believe him like no other had. There was such a dreadful amount of conviction in his eyes. They no longer glowed or flashed with anger...only humanity and trueness.

I could not hate Erik. I never had, yet how many times had I been disappointed along the way? He was in many ways a victim. Made into a monster, becoming a killer. I had seen his talent for beauty long ago, ever since I first laid eyes on his skills in Persia. I had seen him fall apart. I had seen a younger man, with dreams and hope beneath his anger, turn to malice and lifelessness in his later years. He could not have been so old. Perhaps in his early forties, and yet when I had seen him last I knew little time was left to him.

Joy and relief had flooded my heart when he spoke that day. Even if he was deluded, it was welcome, it was wonderful. I had finally seen what I knew he could be, and something akin to peace overcame me. I am not a weeping man. A tear had not fallen from my eyes since the death of my son. When I returned to my quarters that night, I cried.

The face had not bothered me anymore. He looked worse than he ever had physically, and yet he shone with a strange sort of indefinable quality that kept me from looking away even once. He seemed young again and then wise beyond his years, contradicting every notion I ever had about the ways a person could be. I was so skeptical and cynical of every being on this earth, and yet Erik was above them all. How backwards I must be. Allah, forgive me.

I made my way through the passages, remembering everything and trying to decide what I would say when I returned. He did not seem to mind my arrival at all, last time we'd spoken. I had expected rage. When I'd seen the girl and her vicomte leave the cellars that fateful night, I knew some extraordinary occurrence must have taken place. They were safe, and yet I wanted to know if Erik had survived... hatred and weakness both kept me from helping him escape his sure death that night.

But he had lived, and now he was dying. There was no debt to be repaid now, no ulterior purpose for my visit. I simply wished to see him. He was a friend...the only one I had, and yet what a man to know. A complex enigma of the human spirit that challenges every preconceived thought one believed true. It was not our mutual experiences in the east, nor my duty to him, nor even a sort of curiosity that caused me to seek him out. It was simply to fulfill a promise to an old friend. A damnably good one.

When I at last reached the lake and his home on the shore, a strange feeling seemed to permeate the area. I sensed something was different almost before I stepped upon the threshold of his ruined home. It was a supernatural sensation, a feeling of aboveness. I knew immediately upon my entry what I was to find.

Nothing caught my eyes at first. All was silent and calm. A coldness seeped in through the drafts in the catacombs. Autumn's first chill, breathing at last upon the underworld. My footsteps walked over the damaged things upon the floor, or sounded upon the wood and disturbed the ethereal peace. I sighed, taking a deep breath as I opened the door to his chamber.

It was empty. One candle was lit, nearly burnt out. The room was still. I walked forward with apprehension towards the coffin in the center; his strange possession for a burial he believed would never happen if he did not see to it. He did not sleep. It was undisturbed. I began to wonder if Erik had disappeared and finally became a real ghost. It was foolish; the thought was dismissed as immediately as I thought it.

I left the chamber, searching room by room for the man, yet finding no evidence of him. I began to fear he had run away, became lost to his insanity in the twisted confines of the cellars. Then I remembered just who he was, and what he was capable of creating, and smiled pensively, knowing Erik would never be lost in his opera.

One last place crossed my mind. It had almost escaped my memory. I walked forward with both dread and anticipation as I reached the white door marking the room she had used during her...stay. I pushed it open, retreated my hand instantly. Light came from within. I reached it tentatively again, pushing back the door even more and walking in slowly on the sight which met my eyes.

Something like a cry left my throat. I saw him lying on her bed. He had curled upon his side, clutching at something in his hands. I knew he was gone.

Sobs built up inside. Never will I forget the sight. It was the most reverent and placid one I ever will see in my life. He did not wear the mask. His face was revealed in the dwindling candlelight, and still I could see the contentment there. Had I doubted before that he was truly a good man? I was a fool, an idiot of unspeakable ignorance. Never in death had I seen such a beautiful expression. His lips were curled in a light smile, his eyes relaxed instead of any twisted features of grief and final anguish. He had died a peaceful death, not one of great pain or suddenness. It must have occurred this very morning, very recently...

It occurred to me then. I finally knew. Erik had loved her. He was not only capable, but had known more of love, had loved more than myself and most men could ever hope. So denied he had been, fighting against all odds despite the darkness that he had become, that I believed he had perhaps loved more than any ever could. Not only that, but he had lived.

I felt ironically of envy for him. I could not fathom the depths of a love that could so change a person, a miserable one I never expected to. Erik had been a sad but familiar constant, never to change, predictable in his undeniable basis. I never questioned that he could receive love... If even I could be affected by his own capability of love, I was left awestruck, wondering how much it had Erik.

I should have believed him. He had known I did not, but the truth haunted me from that point on as I knew that indeed, the Phantom was a legend, but Erik was real. He had been a wonderful soul, a human one. He could have won over the entire world. The very potential I had always glimpsed whether from observing his great talent and mastery of skills, or just the rare moments in which his poignant life, experiences, and the person himself showed me just how amazing he was. A stray hopeful thought, a moment of quiet peace, words he had spoken revealing more about himself in indifferent wonder than ever gathered from the surface.

He would have been renown, were it not from a curse bestowed upon him at birth. It had been no fault of his, the life he had been given. What he had done, whether to survive or to forget, was. And yet in that moment and every one since, I never blamed him again.

He could have had everything, yet contented himself to live within the cellars of an opera, still creating beauty as an invisible maker, a ghost more real than most souls, more intricate and glorious than they could ever aspire to be. She would have loved him.

He must have known that...no, he had not. Erik had possessed a self-depreciating, unknowing spirit that only further moved the heart. I felt a sort of sureness that her face must have been the last thing he'd seen before breath finally left him, perhaps she had finally been a true angelic form that granted him entry into the world above, one that I was convicted he belonged to. I knelt beside the body on the bed, contemplating Erik, finally.

It was then I remembered a conversation I'd had with the Daae girl when I'd found her in his home.

…..

" _Miss Daae, can you not see that you do not belong here?"_

" _I do not, you are right, but I cannot leave!"_

" _I will make sure he lets you go. You must trust me. I will find a way to get you out of here. You do not deserve this."_

" _No, Monsieur Khan, please." Her hand touched my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks._

" _What? Christine, you have the vicomte to think of, yourself! You must not be a martyr for his selfish desires!"_

" _I am no martyr," she'd said. "I can see...Erik. That is his name, isn't it?"_

 _I hesitated, fearful she had found out by some secret discovery. I would not lie to her. "Yes, it is."_

" _He is not a ghost, or an angel. He is a man."_

 _It was almost a question, one I could not blame her for, given his way. "He is."_

" _He's so unhappy," she'd said quietly. I saw tears within her eyes._

" _His burden should never be yours to bear. He is thinking only of himself."_

" _Oh, but he isn't. He...did lie to me, but you see," her eyes plead for understanding. Perhaps she had wanted me to verify the way her feelings warred against her. "He is so very kind, all at once. He...he taught me everything I know about music. I owe not only my voice to him, but my respect. He...cares for me."_

" _Miss Daae...you cannot know, you have not seen—"_

" _I have," she'd whispered with obvious fear. "I have seen his face, what lies behind the mask he wears."_

 _I stopped, unable to believe she had not run screaming, that she was not long lost within the darkness beneath the opera. She was stronger than she appeared._

" _And I almost understand," she'd whispered. "Not fully. But I can see why he hurts so much...No one...no one has ever loved him, have they?"_

 _I shook my head sorrowfully. "He has lived a lonely life. But it should not be a concern you must undertake."_

" _I thought so…" she began to cry. I felt pitiful for not seeing further that Erik had corrupted her so. "It must be so terrible. I only wish…"_

" _Christine," I'd said, walking towards her and embracing her, although we had but just met. "You must not cry. It is not something any other has been able to do...it is unfair, but… you must know that he-" I realized something. "He loves you, doesn't he?"_

 _She did not answer, yet it was of an answer in itself. Her tears overcame her._

" _You must realize, Christine, that you know so little about him. No doubt your heart is in the right place, but Erik is not the type of man a woman can love...he has done so many things-"_

" _But that is why I wish to understand. What has he done?"_

" _Don't ask me, please…"_

 _She nodded, bowing her head knowingly. We stood in silence._

" _I am determined to understand. If he loves me, he will tell me and...I will try."_

…...

I now realized that a higher level of goodness must have existed in Christine Daae. I had underestimated her, long believing her an everyday woman, talented to be sure, that was frightened out of her mind due to Erik's affections and obsession— a victim longing for release to be with her lover and yet too compassionate to condemn him. I was so very wrong.

She had not merely wished to understand him, as I had thought. She meant she would try to _love him_.

When I looked at Erik now, saw his face, in death so much more radiant than in life, I believed it was almost as if she had...

I did not know whether it was best to lay him in his coffin and give him a proper burial, or to simply leave him in the place he'd sought to breathe his last. I decided on the latter. It would not be right to disrupt that ethereal peace. I did however reach for his cold hands, which brought me no disgust since they had always been that way in life. In his grasp, clutched to his thin, lithe chest, was a shimmering golden ring.

When I finally left after a final glance at the scene which was so poignant I could not look away, I made sure to close the door and enable all the traps. None would disturb his final resting place, a fitful tomb shrouded in his precious memories of her. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way. When I returned to the surface, I was changed, disillusioned, and sorrow surrounded me for the rest of my days. I had long been a melancholy sort of man. It was an ending I had always been destined for. I was never meant to be caught up in the infinite mystery of love as Erik had. My fate had always been written.

I considered writing to Christine, and to tell her of his death. I decided against it.

It seemed unwise to resurrect the ghosts of the past.


End file.
